


VD

by TooRational



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff and Humor, Grumpy Daryl Dixon, Jesus (Walking Dead) is a Little Shit, Kissing, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14534949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Fucking Valentine's Day.Ugh.





	VD

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up months late with no Starbucks*
> 
> So, I had this in my drafts forever and then finally got off my ass and finished it. It was supposed to be posted around Valentine's Day, but as you can see, plans and all.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Valentine's Day.

Fucking _Valentine's Day_.

_Ugh._

~*~

It begins with a calendar.

When the months get colder and they're all mostly stuck inside and bored to tears, Paul takes it on himself to figure out what date it is, and manages it by pinpointing the Winter Solstice. (There's some sort of tracking where the sun sets and rises in relation to the Hilltop's walls, or something or other, blah blah blah, Daryl didn't pay attention.)

Anyway, unlike everyone else, Daryl was fairly indifferent to the whole 'having a functional calendar' thing. It didn't matter one bit in his life - you don't need a calendar for hunting, or rebuilding, or guarding shifts, or scavenging, or literally anything Daryl does. Hell, it didn't matter even before the apocalypse, let alone now.

But then.

Oh, dear lord.

Then, someone remembered Valentine's Day and went 'aww' like a dumbass, and the madness began.

The goddamn _insanity_ , more like, because What. The actual. Fuck?

It's like everyone lost their minds collectively. People - regular, normal people, _individuals_ Daryl had some respect for until recently - started acting like blushing schoolchildren or awkward teenagers, more so than the _actual children or teenagers_.

And worst of all, since almost everyone knows about Paul and the thing by now, they've started to turn on Daryl.

He can just _feel_ the speculative looks, the creeping curiosity; hear the buzzing of endless unasked questions that would pour out if he showed but the slightest sign of weakness.

Daryl is categorically having none of that.

No part in any of it, at all, thank you and fuck off.

What the fuck.

~*~

Of course, not everyone gets the message. He has to glare away at least three people who want to talk about it with him and get over-familiar about his 'gift to Paul', and then distract a gaggle of children that descend on him, bouncing and chattering and asking about what people usually did on this day Before.

Which - let us just take a moment and acknowledge this brain-melting detail - why _the fuck_ would they ask _him_ that? Does he look like someone who even knows what that shit is, let alone celebrates it? Does he look like the _Valentine's Day_ type?

Un-fucking-believable.

Which is to say that Daryl is not, under any circumstances, getting Paul anything for this godforsaken holiday.

No way.

And everyone should just stop bugging him and mind their own damn business.

~*~

Of course, the worm of doubt gnaws at him relentlessly in the weeks leading up to the stupid day.

Maybe Paul expects something?

Well, okay, probably not. Daryl knows Paul, and the sneaky little ninja is not the sort to expect or feel entitled to anything from people, especially if it's something just for his sake. (Which is a whole different can of worms, one that's surprisingly hard to open and then blow into bits, never to return, but whatever.)

Back to the damn quote-unquote 'holiday'.

It's apparently a thing for people who are... _with_ other people. So it's possible Paul thinks it's a matter of fact thing, and that they'll do it.

Problem is, how the hell is Daryl supposed to know for sure?

It's not like he can just-

Oh.

...ohh, his momma gave birth to a complete dumbass - why not just ask Paul about it?

Daryl mulls that over for a second, then nods to himself.

Yeah, that's a good idea. Paul will know about this stuff.

~*~

He apparently _shouldn't_ ask Paul about it, because 'that ain't romantic _at all_ ' and Daryl should just never talk to Paul _ever again_ , and basically just read his mind if he ~~lov~~ likes him at all.

Sometimes - more and more often lately, with this whole thing V-word thing, but - _sometimes_ , Daryl wonders if his family is... like, all there? You know, in the head? Or if this apocalypse thing really got to them, and good?

Because that particular piece of advice makes no sense, of any sort, at all, not even a bit.

Mindreading is _not_ a real thing, come on, people. And Daryl learned long ago that just spitting things out is often the smartest thing to do. Everything is crystal clear to all parties and there's little to no chance of misunderstanding.

And seriously, not talking to your... _person_ -thing? Why the fuck would you even be with someone if you couldn't talk to them about stuff? (And yes, Daryl is very aware of the fact that it's incredibly ironic that _he_ , of all people, is an advocate for _talking_ of any kind, but it is what it is.)

If you ask Daryl, people are just fucking nuts.

And doing this 'being with their person thing' all wrong.

Again, not an expert, but _common fucking sense_?

Dear lord.

~*~

So, Daryl steels himself and asks Paul about it.

....sort of.

~*~

When Paul shows up in Alexandria two whole days before Daryl is scheduled to go back to the Hilltop, he does so with a 'message from Maggie', which is such a load of bullshit Daryl's surprised Paul's eyes haven't turned brown yet.

Please, they have couriers for that, and Paul himself rarely goes on such short, meaningless trips anymore. He has his hands full with training, planning, being Maggie's right hand, diplomacy (such as it is in a post-apocalyptic world), and scavenging, still being the best one in all the communities.

The asshole missed him, plain and simple - as baffling as Daryl finds that - but he doesn't want to admit it.

Daryl smirks at the wide-blue-green-eyes-and-innocent-face act, and refuses to give in and admit he missed him back, no matter how much his fingertips tingle with the desire to touch.

The little shit promptly and 'accidentally' drops a whole crate of produce on his foot a mere minute later.

Goddamn, why did he choose _this_ vindictive, petty, stubborn person as his? He must be soft in the head, just like his family.

~*~

The funny, generous, lovely asshole also 'kisses him better' that evening when Daryl plays the injury up way more than it actually hurts, so Daryl can't even be mad about it.

Goddammit.

~*~

"Anythin' new at Hilltop?" Daryl asks as he faceplants into Paul's chest, shifting and wiggling until he's comfortable, pressing Paul deeper into the couch in the process.

It's one of the best parts of the house, this couch, large enough they can both fit and with room to spare. It's damn ugly, too, but comfortable as sin.

"Nah, asides from that Valentine's thing," Paul says with a chuckle as he wraps his arms around Daryl, the sharp edges of the book he was reading digging into Daryl's back. He'd complain about it but then Paul would take his hands off him to put away the book, and that's just not worth it.

Wait, hold on. This is a good opening for the thing Daryl has to ask. He can nudge the conversation in the direction he needs it to go in, right?

(Right?

Probably.

Possibly?

Ugh.

Daryl and conversations were never very good to each other.)

"You ever do anythin' 'bout it, before?"

Paul hums, his beard tickling Daryl's forehead, lips a soft contrast brushing against his skin whenever Paul speaks.

"I don't know, I kind of went along with it if I happened to be in a relationship at the time? But I was never really into it."

There's a hanging silence for a minute, Paul quiet but with something obviously on his mind. The struggle ends on a sigh.

"There's a lot of the L-word thrown around that time of the year, and I could never... I never felt it, and didn't want to lie about it. Kind of put an end to any relationship right there," he says quietly.

Well. That doesn't help, but Daryl is too comfortable right now to be bothered about it.

He exhales, eyes closed, boneless and relaxed.

A few moments pass, and he suddenly becomes aware of the telltale prickling at the back of his neck, one that tells him when he's being watched.

"What?" he murmurs, unmoving.

"You... don't have anything to say? About that?" Paul asks carefully, and Daryl frowns and blinks his eyes open.

Like what? What does he have to do with-

Oh.

"Nah."

It's the god's honest truth, but it's also obvious Paul doesn't get it, so he explains as much as he can.

"We're different, all of us. Bonds between us are different, too. What you had with them ain't what we have now. Different times, different people. Even we, you and I, are different than we were a couple years ago."

Daryl lifts his head and rests his chin on Paul's sternum, digging in a bit because he likes nothing better than making Paul squirm.

He does, but he also keeps looking at Daryl, something vulnerable lurking in the depth of his eyes.

"And I don't want you to lie to me. Ever. Best tell the truth and be done with it."

Paul doesn't say anything, just nods and wraps both arms tighter around Daryl, the damn book making itself known again.

Daryl ignores it, lays his head back down and listens to the reassuring thump of Paul's heart until it lulls him to sleep.

~*~

In the middle of the night, Jesus sprawled half on his back like a human blanket, Daryl wakes up with the realization that he still has no idea if Paul wants or expects anything for this so-called 'holiday'.

He stifles a groan, but decides huge decisions like that can wait.

Sleep comes easily.

~*~

Well, when in doubt - improvise.

~*~

It hits Daryl just what the hell he's doing mere hours into the next day.

He, _Daryl Dixon_ , of the Georgia white-trash Dixons,

is planning a _Valentine's Day_ gift-whatever- _thing_ ,

for another _man_ ,

who is nicknamed _Jesus_ ,

in the middle of the _apocalypse_.

...

Daryl laughs himself sick, feeling slightly unhinged and almost wishing his old man and Merle could see him now, a curious mix of spite and pride burning in his stomach.

Fucking hell.

You couldn't make this shit up if you tried.

~*~

The day of, everything goes sideways.

Daryl leaves the Hilltop early in the morning, planning for the hunting trip to be short enough so he has time to shower and be presentable by early afternoon, but he finds fresh tracks and even manages to bag a big buck. Which is great, considering the time of the year, and good news for both communities and their meat supplies on top, but now he's stuck with the clean-up and it's already past noon.

He's carving out the deer and swearing to himself when Paul wanders over, the stupid rib-bruising book in hand. Paul doesn't say anything, just brushes Daryl's bangs out of his eyes with light fingers as he passes, then settles on the grass a foot away and sticks his nose in the book.

Daryl works for a while, then sees an opportunity he can't resist and just goes with it.

"Here, hold this," he tells Paul, matter of fact and looking at Paul out of the corner of his eye.

Paul just holds out his hand and keeps reading, like Daryl knew he would, and Daryl slaps the deer's blood-coated heart in his palm.

The reaction is damn near priceless.

Paul turns his head slowly and, looking straight ahead and definitely not at his hand, says "Daryl" in that tone of voice all parents have down pat from the moment their child comes screaming into the world - homicidal and holding on to their sanity with the tips of their fingers.

"Yeah?" Daryl asks innocently, stifling a grin, and keeps removing the deer's entrails.

"Daryl," Paul repeats, shooting him a half-disgusted and half-pleading look.

"What? You kill a million walkers but mind a little flesh and blood?" Daryl says.

"I don't touch the walkers _with my bare hands, Daryl_ \- which, incidentally, is what I'll use to _slowly kill you_ ," Paul says, and starts looking where he could put the heart down.

He's obviously unwilling to just toss it away - precious resources, Daryl's kill, appreciating the effort and time put into this - but he's also clearly unhappy about the bloody thing in his hand, as well as its proximity to his book.

Stupid book.

Daryl takes pity on him.

"Here, gimme that," he says, and deposits the heart into the bucket for the clean and finished cuts of meat.

Paul grimaces at his palm, still dripping red, and tries to wipe it clean on the surrounding grass.

"Why would you do this to me, dear lord," Paul says, and Daryl replies automatically, "What, no one ever give you their- a heart for Valentine's Day?"

_Fuck._

Paul stills, and Daryl very deliberately doesn't look at him as he mentally curses out his tongue, his throat, and his mouth, and then adds every single organ that helps form words that come out and _fuck up Daryl's life_.

Why does this shit happen to Daryl? Why?

Isn't the apocalypse enough? Now he's in a damn country song, too?

And there's no way Paul - sharp, smart, quick to figure shit out Paul - missed that little slip, so Daryl's only hope now is distraction.

"It's one of the best parts of the animal. Figures you wouldn't know anythin' about that, city boy."

"Hey," Paul says and Daryl shoots him a wary look from behind his bangs.

 _Please don't_ , he wants to say, and can't. His body betrays him, the asshole.

But as soon as he looks at Paul, he remembers.

See, Daryl forgets who Paul truly is. He forgets how perceptive he is, how in tune with Daryl's moods he is, and most of all, he forgets how kind he is.

The look on Paul's face right now is soft and impossibly fond, and Daryl watches, mesmerized, as Paul carefully puts his book down and leans in for a slow, deep kiss.

It pulls Daryl in and spins his head around, as always, drowns him in softness while his blood rushes in his ears. He finds himself leaning in, chasing this feeling only Paul ever managed to draw out of him, and he's inches away from finally sliding his fingertips across-

"Touch me with those hands and I'll kill you," Paul murmurs against his lips.

Daryl blinks, confused for a second, then his brain turns over like an old engine and roars back to life.

He snorts but agrees easily. Not only would he do whatever Paul needs him to, whenever he needs him to, but he has no doubt he'd get an ass-kicking if a drop of blood landed on Paul. Of the non-fun variety.

Paul's a badass like that.

(It's so weird that's a point of pride for Daryl now, isn't it? And yet.)

"And I am grateful for everything you give me, most of all your time and attention, but please don't hand me any more animal hearts," Paul says with a smile and a tiny bite at Daryl's lower lip.

"Okay," Daryl repeats, and keeps his hands well away from Paul for the next five minutes.

His lips are a whole other matter.

~*~

"Wait, so what do I do with the thing I got you?"

The look on Paul's face is a precious, hilarious mix of surprise and panic.

"...what?"

~*~

By the time Daryl is done with the animal, the day's dramas are starting to get to him.

At least two couples have screaming arguments right out in the open, misunderstandings and issues apparently ongoing even in the apocalypse, making him twitchy and uncomfortable and kind of like a voyeur that's looking into other people's relationships.

He doesn't want that. He has enough trouble keeping his own... _thing_ in good health and moving forward.

Also, Paul disappeared about fifteen minutes before Daryl was done with the deer and it's making Daryl nervous, a lot.

He drops off the meat and heads for the trailer, where he finds Paul rearranging his book stacks. Since that's as good as a giant neon sign above Paul's head that says 'need alone time', he takes a quick shower and dresses in one of his less-ripped shirt-and-jeans combos.

"Isn't it funny that VD is short for Venereal disease?" Paul says out of nowhere as Daryl walks out of the bathroom, and Daryl just looks at him, lost.

"What?"

"Yeah. Also Veteran's Day, Victory Day, and a bunch of other stuff," Paul continues, scratching his forehead in a nervous gesture obvious from five miles away.

Daryl has no idea what to say.

"Or vaginal delivery, that too," Paul finishes quietly, and _what?_

_What?_

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Daryl asks, frowning, almost concerned now.

"Nothing, I just think it's interesting," Paul says, the lie so obvious it's painful to look at.

He's avoiding looking at Daryl and that's... it's not good.

"Yeah, sure. Wanna tell me why you just babbled some real fuckin' weird shit at me?" Daryl says, possibly a bit too sharp. His vocal cords are not completely under control right now.

"I didn't, it's really fascinating, I read about it in- Oh, fine, _fine_ , I was nervous, okay? Okay," Paul rambles out in a quick sequence, and Daryl is still confused.

" _Why?_ "

"Because I have no idea what to expect here! I thought you wouldn't even want to do this, this whole Valentine's thing, and honestly I was fine with it, but now you've said the heart thing and you actually got me something and it's messing with my head, I just-" Paul says.

"You don't gotta get me anything," Daryl interrupts.

"I know, but I wanted to because this-- this is different, me and you and-- you're not-- what we have, what you and I have is-- I never felt something like-- not even close to-- to--" Paul waves his hand around in a gesture that tells Daryl jack squat, then sighs in frustration, and it's obvious he's taking this entire thing way too much to heart.

What a silly, silly little ninja.

"Hey," Daryl says as he steps into Paul's space and wraps both arms around his waist. Pulls him closer, which is where he should always be if you ask Daryl.

Paul sighs again but leans into the embrace.

"I'm serious. I don't care about this shitty holiday at all. Just didn't want you to think I didn't care about... uh, about you," Daryl whispers into Paul's temple.

"I know you do," Paul whispers back, and that means more to Daryl than any gift possibly could. Knowing he managed to convey his feelings to Paul despite being... himself. Despite everything Daryl was and is, everything that he was taught, everything that was beaten into him.

It's a goddamn miracle.

"So," Paul says as he gets back to himself in record time, cocking his head and sporting an obnoxious smirk, "What did you get me?"

Daryl flushes but narrows his eyes at Paul.

"Keep being an ass and you ain't gonna get it."

"Aww, don't be like that," Paul says, smile breaking out even though he's struggling to keep a straight face.

This, _this_ is the Paul no one but Daryl sees. The playful, teasing, energetic little asshole who loves word games and messing with people's heads and expectations. He's awful and wonderful and _just Daryl's_ , in all the ways that count. He makes Daryl's heart beat harder, like they're in a goddamn Disney cartoon.

Fucking _feelings_.

"'Kay," Daryl says, and pulls out the small package he's been agonizing over for days.

Paul unwraps it carefully, and finds a beautiful brown leather belt with a knife thigh holster attached, as well as space on it for other items he might want to add.

"You got me a superhero utility belt," Paul says, stunned.

"Yeah," Daryl says.

"You got me- oh my god, _really_?"

And there's the absolute and total geek-out Daryl expected.

"Yeah," Daryl repeats, and watches in fond bemusement as Paul excitedly turns it this way and that, strokes the supple leather, squints at the tiny angel wings Daryl painstakingly stitched on the holster, then puts it on.

It's an entire minute before Paul even remembers Daryl is there, and in the meantime he did a bunch of random kicks and painful-looking movements for a while, all the while muttering to himself about how comfortable the belt is.

"Thank you, holy shit, it's amazing," Paul says, and strides back to Daryl and kisses him firmly, like something out of an old western.

(Daryl has to lock his knees for a brief second because _wow_.)

"I have something for you, too," Paul says when he lets him up for air, and before Daryl can protest shoves a small parcel at him, wrapped in honest-to-god shiny wrapping paper.

Daryl frowns.

"You don't have to--"

"No, no, I want to," Paul says, and shoots him a quick smile.

"Where'd you even get the paper?" Daryl asks, momentarily distracted by the shiny material and the improbability of it not only surviving the apocalypse, but of Paul finding it.

Sometimes it's like the man has a little bit of a magpie in him, always finding incredible things on his runs, mostly shiny and eye-catching.

His head clears rapidly when he uncovers the gift, though, and he's left tongue-tied and shocked.

It's a small picture-frame with the words _'I The-L-Word U'_ done in beautiful calligraphy, written on what seems to be thick, expensive off-white paper.

Daryl blinks at it in disbelief.

"You know calligraphy?" he says through a tight throat, trying to avoid the fact that he has no idea what to do or say to what's basically a love declaration. On expensive paper. Holy crap.

"Yeah. Just the basics, though, and it's been a long time since I wrote anything, so," Paul says, arms crossed over his belly in a gesture that always looked like one of self-preservation to Daryl. Like he's covering his vulnerable parts, preparing to be hurt.

Daryl doesn't want to hurt Paul. God, he wants to protect Paul, keep him safe, and happy, and healthy, and watch him grow old, and--

He screws up all his courage and steps closer, asks, "You do?"

"Yeah," Paul says, swallows shakily and nods, "I really do."

Daryl's entire chest aches, heart ready to burst out and sing, sunshine burning bright and all that crap that he never thought was true, but it wasn't lies, he's feeling it, _holy shit_.

He leans his forehead carefully against Paul's, catches his breath, and draws strength from the fact that this is his person.

 _His_ person, and his alone.

"I the-el-word you, too," Daryl whispers roughly, feeling silly but pushing through the embarrassment.

There's little left of him that isn't Paul's, and he gives up the last crumbs of it freely.

It's worth it, if nothing for the beaming smile that lights up Paul's face.

Because Paul is worth it all. Even a damn Valentine's Day.

(Maybe especially a damn Valentine's Day.)

( _Ugh._ )

 

THE END


End file.
